


Pub Fight

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what it sounds like.  Bodie tries to keep Doyle out of a fight.  He fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pub Fight

_  
**Pros fic: Pub Fight**   
_   
_Beta’d by anonymous beta, though I made some changes since (some suggested, some otherwise). Any errors in character, plot, or Britishness are mine alone. :)  
-Allie_

Summary:  
Just what it sounds like. Bodie tries to keep Doyle out of a fight  
when he's had a few too many. He doesn't succeed.

  
1145 words

 **Pub Fight**

by Allie

   
Laughter rang out in the pub. 

“Too right, mate!  Don’t let the angry midget loose!”  A beefy Met Special Branch man raised his glass.

Doyle renewed his struggles to get free.

“We really don’t need another incident,” Bodie said, restraining his partner.  Doyle was more than three sheets to the wind and the pub was full of rowdy Special Branch men. 

Cowley was having a difficult enough time with interagency nonsense without another fight to contend with.  And he’d be sure to punish them if word got back.  Which it would.

Doyle’s temper was far too easy to rouse, but all the same Bodie felt his own blood beginning to boil.  That Met man was far too self-satisfied.  Bodie resisted the urge to leer at him and stick two fingers up.  He tried to look inoffensive and mildly friendly and held onto his friend with both hands.

As soon as the man had started up, Doyle had slammed down his glass and jumped up, starting forward, his hands balled into fists.  Bodie had been quicker, grabbed Doyle around the waist and pulled him back. 

When he got this fighting spirit in him, Doyle seemed to be all steel and wire, at least twice as dangerous as his size.  ‘Midget’ was bloody cheek, but there were times when Bodie thought his friend was absurdly thin and not really big enough to hold all the fight he had inside him. 

But tonight Doyle was tiring fast.  Maybe it was the drink and the long day.  Bodie kept him wrapped up tight, kept talking to him.  “C’mon, Ray.  C’mon, mate.  Calm down and finish your drink.”

The struggling iron body began to relax a little.  Doyle’s chest heaved under Bodie’s hands and his heart thumped hard. It was somehow scary to feel those ribs so distinctly and that heart’s quick pounding, running down.  For a moment Doyle seemed not strong and dangerous to him, but vulnerable. He could be so easily upset.  And he was not so small—but he was a lot smaller than the Special Forces bloke.  And there were only Bodie and Doyle here from CI-5 compared to seven from the Met, spoiling for a fight.

Finally—finally—Ray relaxed.  “Let me go, Bodie,” he growled.

“Yeah, mate.  Finish your drink and let’s go,” said Bodie softly.  “Think of the odds.” he added, just in case Doyle was thinking of lunging for the MI-6 man after all.  Wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried a fake-out.

“You can take your odds, mate—” Doyle pushed free from Bodie’s loosening grip.  He picked up his mug, glowered in the direction of the Met man, and took a swig.

Beefy man gave him a knowing grin, and raised two casual fingers in the air.

Doyle bounced to his feet again.

This time, Bodie was too slow.  Oh no.  Oh, Ray—

Grimacing, Bodie rushed into the fray after Doyle.  Too late for half measures now, he went at it with his fists, clocking anyone who got near, doing his best to watch Doyle’s back. 

“Right!  That’s it! Out!  Out, all of you!” snapped the landlord.  “I’ve ‘ad enough of you lot!  Out!”

A fist caught Bodie in the eye. He saw stars, went down, then popped up, delivered two for good measure, laid about him like a fiend.  Everyone ignored the landlord.

Bodie was down again; he felt someone thump on top of him and heard a familiar grunt, despite the ringing in his ears.  Before he could gather his wits (and throw Doyle off), triumphant Met men were grabbing them by their ears, shoulders, arms and chucking them out.

Flung out the door, Bodie stumbled, tried to catch himself, and landed on his knees and elbows on the tarmac. He swore under his breath.

There would be hell to pay: in their bodies, in interdepartmental iciness, in Cowley’s wrath, and in no longer being welcome at that pub.

Beside him, he heard Doyle groan and retch; he was down, perhaps really injured. 

Gritting his teeth, ignoring the ringing in his head and the pain in his ribs, and the swelling throb of his eye, Bodie hauled himself to his feet and stumbled for Doyle.  

“Y’alright?”  He leaned over, unstable and slow, his head spinning, and tried to haul his partner to his feet and help him away from this awful situation.

But now Doyle lay dreadfully still, and didn’t answer. Bodie nudged him till he moved, and then hauled him to his feet.

Bodie couldn’t tell how badly Doyle had been hurt. It made Bodie uneasy. Gone was the wire and steel.  Doyle’s icy fire had definitely melted.  He sagged in Bodie’s arms, retched and spat blood.  His feet weren’t working properly.  Doyle moved slowly, groggily. The two of them stumbled along together, somehow, Bodie holding Doyle up till he could get proper control of his limbs.

“Bloody fool,” said Bodie, holding him gently.

“I know.” Doyle leaned against his friend, sounding sick and hurt and oh-so-weary.  “I know.”

Bodie gave him a rough pat on the arm.  “My bloody fool though,” he mumbled to himself.

“Wassat?” slurred Doyle.

“Need a hospital?” Bodie asked.

“Need to go back in there and teach them a thing or two,” said Doyle, weaving as he walked, even with help.

“Maybe next week,” suggested Bodie.

“Turn ‘round. Teach them now. Teach everybody...” His voice trailed off.

“Let’s teach them at the hospital,” suggested Bodie. “Get you checked out....”

“Just need to sleep.”

“At the hospital. Come on.” Half steering, half supporting, he got Doyle to the car.

“Should’ve cut their tyres,” mumbled Doyle, falling back against the seat.

“You’re so terribly fierce when you’re half-conscious, Ray,” said Bodie, and slammed the door and rushed around to the driver’s side before his partner could lash out at him.

Bodie’s ribs hurt. He hoped this was all unnecessary, but Doyle wasn’t quite...lucid. And that, along with the spitting blood and inability to balance, could be a dangerous sign.

Of course it could mean he was raving drunk and had bitten his cheek during the fight.

Bodie sighed inwardly as he started up the car and began the familiar trip. Better safe than sorry. He wasn’t losing his partner anytime soon, especially not over something stupid as a pub fight.

He woke Doyle up several times during the trip, just in case it was a concussion. Each time, Doyle snapped at him and he had to think of something to say that was funny or teasing, instead of frightened or angry.

Really, if you stopped to think about it, Bodie was the world’s best friend. Despite his aches, and the hassle of all of this, his mouth slid up into a large smile as he thought about the World Greatest Friend award he deserved.

It ought to be platinum.

Well, at least gold.

  
<<<>>>

  



End file.
